Cursed with Desire
by SporadicWriter
Summary: 1889, in the midst of The Ripper murders, Detective Inspector Vegeta Valenza is assigned his new case. But can he conceal his own dark secret, and new interest in a certain woman? AU - Human
1. Chapter 1

A/N This is a new story I've been working on. Like all my stories, they're influenced A LOT by different programmes, books and whatnot, so don't be surpised if you notice a familiar plot or something. Anyway, I'm treating this as a Pilot chapter. If you don't like it, I'll stop immediately, ha. But I hope that isn't the case.

Very Important - The locations, names of roads, pubs, and brothels are 70% accurate. I barely know London, therefore have probably plonked a load of streets together which are in fact miles apart. My research hasn't stretched very far. Try and overlook it. The thought was there! Also, my knowledge of murder investigations is purely guess, and from what I've seen on TV, so whoopsie. DESPITE all this, I really hope you enjoy reading it, as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

**Disclaimer - I own nothing.**

**THIS IS RATED M FOR EXPLICIT CONTENT. DO NOT READ IF THIS STUFF OFFENDS YOU.**

* * *

Cursed with Desire

Chapter 1

The first slice of the jugular vein always soaked his parched palate with flavours that could only be described as euphoric. The struggling hands smacking against his blood flushed, exerted cheeks as he held them down with his own mediocre strength. The snapping of an intruding, flailing limb as he lumbered them to somewhere exclusive, just for them to witness. This was a one man show that only required one audience member.

No reviewers, please. He didn't take kindly to bitter criticism.

You had to have witnessed it first hand, glimpsed the spattering of blood upon the walls, glanced the crystalised shine of human eyes as the life slipped from their brittle grasp, beyond this realm and onto the next. You had to have _been_ there. But you wouldn't even begin to decipher the idea (The outrageous _idea_!) that a gentleman, such as he, could partake in such an animalistic ritual. But let me enlighten your dark pessimism with the kind of ferocity that may leave you stunned, or perhaps breathless. Even so-called _good_ citizens performed acts as sickening as this, just as bad souls possessed the capability of doing something decent. They all had their reasons, as devoid of justifiable purpose as they may have been.

The latest diary entry was a thick limbed gentleman, whom Vegeta had stalked perilously, like a lion and gazelle, for the longest part of a week before knowing his imminent fate. This particular robust hulk of meat had taken a fond interest in wandering children with little but scraps scattered across their skeletal frames, as they treaded upon even the dankest of crevices for morsels of sodden, shit soaked scraps. During the daylight, London was not a place to pass through alone. Only the brave or depraved took to the desolate alleyways post the strike of the midnight hour. Children would scatter the streets in handfuls, and on the odd occasion, they would return short of one. One unlucky slip of a soul would be accosted by a stout, fleshy man with a scalp that gleamed under the moonlight, his eczema slathered hand reaching out with a scrap of lower-crust bread sitting in the centre. Gripped by starvation, the child would follow, unbeknown with the activities that lay waiting with every step closer. The man would breathe, a rasp of desperation and want rumbling in his chest as he captured his prey, left the child stuck in his silken web to do as he pleased. The child would never see the grey, polluted skies of their deprived Whitechapel life again. The end. But for our chunky attacker, it was merely the beginning to his beautiful story.

Vegeta waited, hidden behind a stationary carriage, its horse and coachman missing. A boy of no more than eight short years, patches of balding scalp showing on his malnourished head, crept out to the purring of our grotesque friend, enticed by the same cunning routine which failed to fail. Vegeta tugged the collar of his coat around his mouth, ceasing his baited breath from snaking into the January air. The distant slapping of horse hooves upon cobblestones emanated from a few streets behind, as the night was still new-born and yet to crawl. But it didn't take many shadows for evil to hide amongst. Surreptitiously devouring the scene and dabbing chloroform onto a fresh handkerchief, Vegeta crouched and played out his second-man role, taking great care avoiding any pools of misguided piss that escaped its pathway between the dips in the cobblestones. The street urchin's large eyes widened even further upon noticing his presence, momentarily distracting Vegeta before he stepped behind the predator, clamped the cloth around his open mouth and let the show begin to the frantic escaping slaps of a child's bare feet upon the grime of death's floor.

Hours later, and Vegeta sat in the parlour, sipping from his crystal tumbler, feeling the warm liquid pass over his taste buds and singe his throat before burning with satisfaction in the pit of his hollow stomach. The serenity seeped through his pours with every elongated exhale. The calm sense of a job well done, patting him on the back, because nobody else was there to do it for him. And he didn't want anyone else. The fire crackled in the hearth, reflecting shimmers of ember against his cultured skin. Yes, gracing this backwards city with his glorified presence was a blessing. For both its people and his unwavering passion.

Killing subsided the cravings for a set amount of days, before his dissatisfied hands would long for the feel of a soiled soul, to direct them to where they truly belonged. But, like every day, the wretched daylight emerged through the parlour window, glazing every neglected, decorative piece of crockery left upon the dresser, blotting the hypnotic power of dancing flames amongst the darkness, as another day was born. Another day fuelled by pretence, subordinates fawning over his slight unfamiliarity and ways of moving from one place to another. Another day of hiding in the blaring daylight, where he was most exposed.

* * *

The streets bustled with coaches, bawdy women and men crowing their best offers, and rampant orphans pick-pocketing when your eyes where anywhere other than everywhere. On an average day, Vegeta would've accepted being approached by at least seven paupers on his lethargic journey from Highgate into the East End, eventually stepping through the Petticoat Lane markets. By wart-encrusted hand number ten tugging upon his sleeve, he had picked the pace up from a leisurely stroll to a raging stomp, shunning anyone else who dared to tread in his pathway. But he was praised, regardless of his ill-timing, every moment he set his clacking shoes upon the echoing floors of the station. The other law enforcers worshipped him and his unusual, alluring façade. The fools.

He plodded, tight-lipped and furrow-browed, past the strip of cells, pensively staring ahead, ignoring the raucous rattle of abuse coming from the caged cretins – or prisoners, he was informed as of late. A soft, yet determined weight landed on his shoulder, tearing him free of his feral motive.

"Valenza. May I take a moment of your time?"

He turned to the unwelcomed bristles of Superintendent, George Edminson's facial hair. The unkempt fluff that was regarded as fashionable on this side of London. A sense of style Vegeta evidently did not need, nor want to possess. If Vegeta wanted to stand out any further, he would have left his face completely free of hair, but a mere dusting of stubble proved remarkably useful in these hindering temperatures.

He turned on his heels and regarded his superior with a hint of malice, before glancing at the half-naked woman, sprawled across the floor, face down, in one of the decrepit cells.

"I daren't say I enjoy being the bearer of grave news, but I must play my role accordingly," he said, stroking the end of his moustache with immaculately clean fingers. "Another officer has been killed."

Vegeta felt his eyes widening before he could stop himself.

"Discovered on Dorset Street. Nothing to be over suspicious about. Clean cut throat, a few deep punctures to the chest, his weapons and trinkets stolen. Seems a reoccurring theme, wouldn't you agree?" Edminson finished his conversations with an unarguable question.

The situation in the East End had mutated into something foul and rancid. The task of cleaning it up was too cumbersome. People were dying, killing or being killed. That was how this life functioned.

"Valenza? These are your team. Dwindling into a handful. Are you in the least bit concerned for their wellbeing?"

Vegeta opened his mouth to cut the phatic conversation dry, when Edminson obliged. "I haven't the energy or the time. I want you to scour the high street for Inspector Englands. I sent him out several hours ago and he's yet to return. Once you've found him, bring him back here, and then I'll assign your next duty." He sighed when Vegeta failed to perform with a glint of enthusiasm. "Another prostitute was found last night. He's killed again. With his acquired taste for whore's in full bloom!"

It seemed that Vegeta's pulse reawakened, throbbing gently in his temples. "And the body?"

"The usual; skin torn, gutted like a fresh trout. An awful sight." Edminson reached into his pocket, and fumbled for a crumpled handkerchief, before liberally mopping his brow. "Blasted whores. They get what they deserve if you ask me. Polluting my streets."

Vegeta smoothed back his hair, subtly glancing again at the sprawled woman, who was lying as still as the dead.

"Valenza. I want you to go to the Silver Spoon House brothel and find out any delicate information about the victim … her regular working hours, regular customers, what she charged … her preferred position, I don't care. Just come back with something useful." And he stormed down the corridor, taking his hat from his sweltering head and muttering unintelligible utterances to the stone floor.

Vegeta knew exactly who George Edminson was. Granted, he had only been graced with the pleasure of his company for a fist full of years, but he had the honour of meeting men like him before. Also had the intense pleasure of trapping the air in their windpipes before casting them off to the life after this life. At first glance, you would assume he was a gentleman, but, ah, didn't you wonder that about Vegeta? And found yourself to be falsely lead down a narrow corridor with no way of running back? Once you opened that ominous door at the end, you glimpsed reality. You saw Edminson draped across semen smeared sheets, his undergarments twisted unfashionably around his knobbly knees as a working sixteen year old girl moistened his prick. And at the same time, adjacent to this picture, you saw his beloved, yet sheepish, wife and daughter, sitting at the dining table, elated with pride for their hard working 'gentle man'.

On his way out of 'H' quarters, Vegeta grabbed Inspector Simmons, who was engaged in a useless spat with an unrelenting prisoner, whose choice of weapon was his own, yellow saliva. Simmons reeled back, outrage crumpling his already aging features as he prepared himself for round two.

"You waste your time on _this_?" Vegeta said, pulling Simmons away by the sleeve of his distasteful, grey overcoat

The prisoner took one look at Vegeta, eyes blazing like a raging forest fire, and yelled, "Muddy water swims in your veins, immigrant."

"This brute has just branded with me with every name under the sun, is now having a pop at you, and you think I should leave it?" Simmons admonished.

"Let him rot. It's none of your concern." His so-called colleagues had minds a similar size to that of a grain of sand, leaving evidence all around them. It was his duty to pick up after them, as well as himself. But Simmons was an honest man.

"Well?" Simmons said, pulling at the fabric on his newly creased coat. "You're here for a reason, Valenza."

"The prostitute."

"Which one? There are thousands in Whitechapel, if you've failed to see." He laughed haughtily, and they both walked out of the building and into the tick, foggy afternoon, the roar from the throngs of people making it difficult to converse without straining your own vocal chords.

"From Silver Spoon House. The body was discovered last night."

"Ah, that one," Simmons said, gazing out upon the mass of people with a sense of grandeur in his stance, like he had conquered what was before him. "Yes. Charlotte Wright. She was a pretty one … I think. And you seldom get many of those around these streets." His face reddened, leaving strange blotches over the expanse of weathered skin. "That is the circulating gossip, of course."

Vegeta smirked. "Of course," he muttered before descending the stairs. As he mentioned before, Simmons was an honest man, regardless of the crimson hue across his cheeks. Whether he bedded streetwalkers was none of Vegeta's concern. If asked, Simmons wouldn't lie about it. Closed doors were always slammed shut for a reason, and Vegeta didn't like to pry. Unless, of course, he had to.

* * *

Face down in a puddle of his own drying drool, Inspector Englands snored, emitting a sound like a blue bottle trapped in an empty jam jar. The bar tender, an unkempt man with shoulder length copper hair, failed to notice the line of inebriates, all either asleep or drowsily rocking back and forth, only to smack their foreheads on the bar and wake up again. There was – like every establishment in Whitechapel – an undertone of urine in the air, and Vegeta hoped it wasn't fermenting from Englands' hunched body. Vegeta hadn't failed to notice that there was a small child playing a three-stringed violin at the other end of the bar, letting the mistuned creaks clog up the already dying atmosphere.

"Wot can I getcha, sir?" the bar keep shouted, wiping a glass clean with a soiled cloth.

Vegeta approached Englands, hoping the red-faced bar-keep would understand without any more pollutive talk. He didn't want to rouse suspicion. Despite nothing out of the ordinary taking place, it didn't take much for a brawl to spurt in a public house such as this, even at this time of day.

"Been sat there all day, he has. I've a right mind to throw 'im out." The man paced forward, but stopped to put the freshly wiped glass back onto a wonky shelf.

Vegeta looked at all the other drinkers in the room, noting the strong must of unwashed bodies clinging to the air. There was little doubt that they had ever left this place at all. Englands was a picture of perfection compared to these drunkards.

"Even my Caroline couldn't get him to wake … and she has an irresistible charm," she bar-keep grinned, gesturing to a grossly overweight, scantily clad woman in the corner of the room, asleep with her skirts ruffled over her waist and her pubis on show.

Vegeta swallowed the bile and shook his head, turned and hauled Englands' arm over his should, prizing his face away from the sticky wooden panel of the bar. His sack coat was slicked with a silvery slime that Vegeta didn't want to come into contact with, so he pulled his body as far away as possible, while hoisting him to his feet.

"Get up, you embarrassment," he hissed.

Englands shook his head erratically, blond curls peeping from under his hat, and he scrunched his gunky eye lids. "Gerrofff me, you scoundrel!"

"Be quiet. It's four in the afternoon and you are intoxicated—paralytic, for Christ's sake!"

Englands' hat slipped from his head and landed softly onto the floor boards. Vegeta allowed him to successfully, yet unsteadily, bend down to retrieve it, before grasping his arm again.

"I do not have to listen to you, devil," Englands said, finally peering out of one blood shot eye to see Vegeta's stern features. "Oh, my dear friend!" He threw his arms out, nearly toppling backwards. "Why didn't you say it was you? I was moments away from beating you down."

Vegeta rolled his eyes. "God forbid. Stand straight." He placed a hand on Englands' back to steady him, before letting go, but as soon as the contact dissipated, as did Englands' balance. "For the love of the Lord," Vegeta muttered, grabbing him again.

As of late, Englands had proven himself to be a liability; drinking, failing to turn up for duty. Yet Vegeta couldn't disregard the minor swelling in his chest at seeing this man in such a dreadful state. He couldn't possibly relate to his torment. It was impressive, in fact. Only two months prior, Englands lost his one year old son to pneumonia, and now his wife had taken ill. It was the cruel hand of fate, and it had bizarrely taken a keen interest in the Englands family, regardless of the other deserved trollops that sauntered around the Whitechapel streets.

Ultimately, Vegeta decided against taking Englands back to H quarter, knowing Edminson would struggle to sympathise, especially when he had his own perfect life in Notting Hill to contend with, never mind the thirst in his loins to quench. Vegeta took Englands on the top deck of the bus, to the other passengers' dismay. Englands regurgitated white lumps of half-digested porridge and failed to retain the contents of his bladder until he arrived home. But as dusk settled, and they clambered onto the peaceful streets of Muswell Hill, Englands began to resemble a man with a fraction of common sense.

"It was a foolish mistake," he gurgled, wiping the cold vomit off his cheek and proceeding the smear it onto his exposed waist jacket.

Vegeta said nothing, rather let the scene play out as they turned down Greenham Road.

"I shouldn't have come back for duty. But it's so bloody boring at home." He sniffed. "Home is where the women spend their time. Not men. Not _I_. I'm a decent fellow. Don't you agree, Valenza?"

He grunted a response. It was better to not feed the fire at this moment, not when more pressing matters were peering over the horizon of his mind's eye.

Englands stopped, swung his arms out. "But look at you, sir. Everything built up for you to take. Life adores you. And the _women_ … they weep with need for you. I've seen it. I have _seen _it!"

Vegeta wanted to button Englands lips together, preferably with a thick, steel nail, covered in rust, which would hopefully lead to a nasty infection. But not enough to kill him, even though, presently, that looked like the kindest act to perform. Vegeta would heartily disagree with Englands' declaration. Life was not offering him to take whatever he pleased. Not when the only thing he wanted to take was life. Over and over. And women? They posed little threat to his other, more powerful desires. That particular carnal quarrel could be dampened effectively and quickly; and methodically. Whereas his other passion required a more … meticulous approach. A tender touch and a hushed step.

"This is my home? Oh yes, quite right, it is." Englands dipped his shaking hands into his coat pocket, pulling out a key, but decided against it, instead rapped loudly on the solid wooden door. "Bethany – open the door, will you?" He turned to Vegeta, whose arms were folded tight. "A quick brandy? Whisky?"

This man was relentless with the perils of alcohol. "No. Get some rest," he said, and left Englands just before he heard the latch being removed on the front door.  
Back trampling upon the roused soil of Whitechapel high-street, Vegeta set a course for his next vulnerable target, dipping into the alleyways he had grown unusually fond of. Like an aged wine, or vintage whisky. Eventually coming out onto Wentworth Street, he glanced left and right at the dimly lit stretch of road, with the distant murmur of public houses, overruled by the squawking streetwalkers, emerging into the darkness. It didn't take long before a hideous, skimpy girl, clinging onto a green, moth-eaten shawl, stood in front of him, rolling up her skirts.

"For you, sir? Anything for only a shilling."

Did they not understand the risks they took, wandering about in the darkness in the midst of several brutal murders? The bitter wind forced this girl's teeth to chatter, while she barricaded herself with the bravado she needed to earn a night's wages. But for all the effort, Vegeta would never touch something so grotesque. Her white lips were surrounded by clusters of scabs and yellow crust.

"How old are you, girl?" Vegeta looked over his shoulder. It wasn't wise to take to these streets. He didn't want to be recognised.

She gulped, and he watched her slender throat move with agitation. "Twenty years."

A lie. She didn't look a day over fifteen. He frowned, noting several other women were creeping closer to him. If he didn't move on now, he's be swamped, or robbed. And he couldn't complicate things any further than they already were. He stepped aside her ethereal frame, and moved on through the drizzling night.

Moments later, Vegeta thumped his fist twice on the front door and took a generous step backwards, allowing his eyes to drink the outside of the building, the red painted bricks, the rusted sign barely reading 'The Silver Spoon.' No room for inconspicuousness now. Here, he was victorious, as he was everywhere else. But here, he felt it. Really felt it.

A bearded man, with very grey eyes, his facial hair hiding his youth, opened the door, stared at Vegeta before nodding and stepping aside to let him in. The veil of warmth wrapped around his damp body, sending a visible miasma of his own sweat into the air. The door was clanked shut, bolts and all, and the bearded man slinked down the corridor and into a side room, giving Vegeta space to act. With long strides, he walked down the red-walled corridors, smelling the pungent aroma of opium snaking from under the locked doors. At the end of the corridor was a large, mahogany table, with a big woman sat behind it. Her raven hair was coiled into a tight knot on the top of her head, and although she knew of his presence, she ritualistically took her time to acknowledge it.

She was scribbling on a piece of paper with a charcoal stick. The stick popped onto the paper, and she lifted her watery gaze to meet him. Her eyes crinkled with delight. "Ah, Mr Rimmer, I see you've taken to my establishment. You know my girls cherish your company, oh, so they do."

Stiffly, he slapped three shillings on the table. Conversing was not his favourite past time activity, especially not with the likes of this woman.

"A man of few words," she said, in a sugary sweet tone, while her eyes glued themselves to the shiny coins on the table. "But … actions speak louder than words, Mr Rimmer, wouldn't you agree?"

Changing his name was a necessity. Playing two roles allowed him to manage his duties in the field and behind closed doors systematically, and parallel to one another. You've probably taken Vegeta for a hypocrite, no? Bad-mouthing his superior, when he was rolling around in the same pig pen. Well, you would have to wait to see if your assumptions were to be true. Vegeta was not a straight forward man.

"Charlotte Wright."

The woman gulped, scraped her chair out from beneath her, and walked over to a barred window. "'Fraid not tonight," she clipped, her crimson lips pinching together painfully.

"When?" he said, taking his hat off, and fisting the hollow centre of it.

The woman spun round. "She won't be returning."

A rhythmical banging a groaning suddenly started from the floor above, but the noise was so familiar … to both of them.

"And the reason?" he pushed, goading her.

"You know very well why, sir," she said, sighing and sitting back down again. "Don't act so coy. The whole of London knows." And she whispered. "The Ripper," before shuffling the papers together that were strewn across the table, making sure to misdirect them from the three shillings that persistently sat in the centre.

"Pity," Vegeta said, placing his hat back on firmly. "Any clues as to how this fate caught her?"

She cocked her head, her fixed hair remaining plastered to her scalp. "He's been haunting these streets for months, picking girls one by one and pullin' their throats out. Now he's starting on my girls." Her cheeks flushed with blood.

This topic obviously struck a raw nerve. But, also, the heat in this room was unbearable.

"Any strange-looking gentlemen enter your establishment recently?" he said, dabbing his brow with the colder side of his hand.

She laughed. "Oh, beautiful man, this is a whore house. You're the prettiest needle in this haystack, dear." With a clawed hand, she picked up a dusty bottle of wine, popped the lid off and poured it into a small glass. "Are you a Runner, or sumfink?" she said, scrutinising him over the rim of her glass.

He smirked. "Just a humble customer."

"Well, Charlotte cannot satisfy you tonight, tomorrow night or any night after that. 'Spose you'll have to try another flavour tonight, Mr Rimmer."

Each time she drawled his pseudo name, there was a small smirk working against her usually pursed lips. In a way, he respected this woman, and didn't think twice about underestimating her discrepancies. A man with deep brown eyes, dark olive skin and black hair walks into a whore house and claims his name to be Rimmer, wasn't the most convincing of acts. But this woman, nodded, winked and allowed the show to go on. No qualms. No nothing.

"No. Not tonight." He turned to go, when a door unlocked and a broad man, reeking of drying body odour, exited, tipping his hat to Vegeta in a brotherly acknowledgment of the act that had taken place moments ago. All of a sudden Vegeta felt rather nauseous. The need for rest was burning in his temples. Or perhaps it was the heat?

"Another job well done," a sarcastic, seething, and foreign accented voice said.

Vegeta tore his eyes away from the man, who was just leaving, and picked up upon a shocking sight. A woman stepped out onto the corridor, draped in an emerald, Chinese-styled sleeping gown, her pink nipples visible through the thin material. She leaned languidly against the door frame, her long legs extended, bare feet pressing into the polished flooring. A long coil of damp-looking aqua hair tumbled over her left shoulder, while the rest of it was bunched and dishevelled on the top of her head. For a split moment, her eyes roamed over Vegeta's face, before disinterest took a hold of her and she yawned, her mouth gaping wide open.

He couldn't take his eyes away from the intriguing sight. But he had to.

"I've changed my mind," he said, taking another two shilling out and placing them on the table. "This girl will suffice for tonight."

The blue-haired woman locked eyes with him, a trace of enticement flashing in them, as she pulled herself away from the door frame to stand straight. Alarmingly, she turned her back on him, giving him a glimpse of her pert backside, before she slammed the door shut, cancelling the trance he had found himself captured in. This girl, he had never seen before. And he had tried all of them. It was only right for this exotic-looking creature to bare herself to him, too.

"You'll have to allow her to prepare for your company," the sickly tone of the older woman said.

"I'll wait," he said, and took himself to the shadowy waiting room, plonking himself on a velvet lined armchair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning - This chapter contains explicit content. Please, do not continue to read this if you are offended by it. Thank you.**

Cursed with Desire

Chapter 2

A gentleman on the outside would tell you, with utmost flagrant conviction, that prostitutes were the spawn of Satan himself, cast upon the unsoiled heaths of the Earth to lure innocents into their corporeal, sharpened claws. They would sweat while reeling off every explicit, damp detail of the prostitutes' hunting ritual, while batting their wandering orbs to their tight-lipped, tight-arsed wife, who wouldn't have the foggiest idea what their poor husband was spouting, so long as they were 'well' enough to keep them perched high upon their fashionable pedestals, mingling with the other highbrows of society (whose vaginas smelled of fresh lavender fields and nothing more!). On the inside, a man (be mindful not to refer to him as 'gentle' in this case) would tell you streetwalkers were the sole reason they weren't scavenging across the faeces-smeared streets themselves, that they were the pillars to their twelve bedroom stately home, and what was keeping them at a safe distance from Bedlam. Prostitutes were London. Without them, well, there would be a predicament amongst the scornful citizens of this backwater city. The streets you saw before would be a lot less friendly on your travelling eyes. That was, if you had any eyes left long enough if their sockets.

Vegeta Valenza sat upon prestigiously placed metal fencing with this notion. He did not rely on anyone's red-raw giving hands, because those who gave willingly, sooner rather than later, would want a shilling or two in return to see them through the night. At least streetwalkers laid down their fruitful terms and conditions before they laid down their naked bodies—bared their bones before their arses. A mutual agreement could be negotiated swiftly without the necessity of one's bloodied signature upon the dotted line. That was what made brothels the most honest establishments in London, and a heavy bosom to rest your high-handed head. You had to keep it in your open minds that the souls who sought after the tender folds between a whore's legs were the souls who could afford such luxuries. The poor never feasted upon that delicacy.

Vegeta was numbly introduced to a candle lit, saline-stinking bedroom, with which attained a solid king-sized four posted bed, draped in opulent, red satin sheets (fashionably ruffled to the man's taste) that flickered like jewels in the dimness. The candlelight was sparsely spread across the room, all clustered around the bed, forcing a concaved panel of light to stretch as far it could reach, masking the side where a murky window had recently been fitted. It was all an illusion. Vegeta was no fool to this customary frontage. The room had transformed magnificently since Charlotte Wright had worked in its' limited space, which must have been short of a week ago. Evidently enough time for a rapid recruitment scheme to take place. London was like a broken machine—the moment there was a snag trapping the works, it would be replaced, but never fixed.

Out of a cupboard-sized washroom, to the twinkling tune of petering water, stepped out the blue-haired wench, who had dampened the stench of sweat from her previous guest with a gust of eye watering bath salts. Lavender was what Vegeta could now smell, wafting into the tightly aired room, winding around his heavy clothing and sinking into the steaming material. He regarded her undignified, slouched posture for a moment, before catching a glimpse of something quite unfamiliar to his keen eyes. Something had shifted since his last visit. Discounting the new window, the other window that had remained under Charlotte's rule was now affixed with thick metal bars. Security perhaps? From the Ripper? Or from the whore's themselves? It was rather appropriate, really, keeping them caged. Vegeta hadn't any qualms with whores, but he knew of the crowds that did … excusing their frequent, throat-ripping night-loiterer. Now, the glass was begrimed with grey mould and condensation, so the outside was barely visible. Though a window looking beyond the oppressive scramblers of Wentworth Street was nothing to marvel at.

He took his coat off and stepped around upon creaky floorboards to find the stand that had always remained adjacent to the door. Whores always had an eye for a man's convenience.

"Here. Allow me, sir," she said, padding across the planks towards him, allowing her flimsy shift to slide open across her creamy navel.

The fluidity of her characterful movements mesmerised him, and without any physical coaxing, awakened his manhood.

"Your name. What is it?" he demanded, watching with short breath as she balanced on the balls of her feet to reach the highest possible hook, displaying her curves ingeniously.

She smirked and sauntered to him, licking her bottom lip, leaving a glob of glittering saliva in the corner of her ruby mouth. The bright glaze of her blue eyes flickered in the candle light, meeting his as her hands worked methodically, blindly, to unclasp his belt, before sinking her damp digits beneath the material to caress his aching flesh.

"You have paid for a service, Mr Rimmer. And a service you shall get."

Her slick hands gripped him firmly, goading a cold tingle up and down his spine, before he grew accustomed to her sedating strokes. He reached to feel her porcelain skin, to indulge in the mellifluous texture upon his worn finger-tips, but the girl pulled back like electricity had been shot through her body, and she frowned.

"Ah, ah, ah – that is a tenderness you don't require, Mr Rimmer." Her strokes became harder, forceful, yet she spoke with such dulcet tones.

"I require your name, girl," he said, and swallowed the yearning along with the dryness of his palate. "A name to fit such a pretty, little mouth."

The connection was torn, and she freed her sweating palms from his trousers, releasing a waft of his arousal. A tremor of rejection shook his bravado. But then she smiled, lasciviously pulling upon the left side of her gown until a pink nipple popped out. "My mouth is big enough," she whispered, before squatting, tugging his trousers down to heap onto the floor, and placed her soaking mouth upon his engorged flesh.

Adapted to a whore's virility, Vegeta allowed his stiffened body to succumb to the pace and rhythm of her mouth, though sitting down may have made a more comfortable experience. Nevertheless, he was receiving what he had paid for. The moment a 'Lady' removed her lacy bonnet, squatted before you and slurped upon your cock, then that would be a moment to display a bolt electric curiosity. But this was merely the status quo. Nothing new, and never anything old.

* * *

From time to time, Vegeta failed to muster the use of his expertise in the art of the English language; to converse. That moment of sated replenishment, when your soul became unencumbered from the heavy lead of life, the time when Vegeta felt distant enough to sit mollified by silence. It was the veiled purpose of his visits to Silver Spoon. Not the company of a foul-mannered female, but the mutual contentedness of becoming idle, to draw the musty curtains and sink into the shadows. He sat, poised yet slack on the edge of the bed, watching the dark side of her body as she sprawled out in front of the popping fire, like the spoilt house cat who had got the cream, and swallowed every last drop. Lying exposed, he could make out the silvery flecks on her behind and lower back, where, presumably, and a paying customer had taken a heavy hand to her. Or worse. It would be a shame if the elusive Ripper got his skilled appendages on this girl. With Charlotte disposed of in such a cruel manner, it had given the Silver Spoon the exact excuse to adopt this fresh face. And what a choice they had made.

She stretched her arms and legs, pointing her toes downwards, before flipping onto her side, propping herself onto her shoulder, and pulling the unserviceable garment across her chest. "You have paid for the night, Mr Rimmer. Are you going to sit and think all the while, or would you like to share some of those clever thoughts out loud?"

There was a slight breeze of buoyancy in everything she said or did. The same stigma-fuelled move he'd seen displayed many times, when a rancid culprit was attempting to conceal something they didn't want speculative eyes to witness. Granted, whores were renowned for their blasé attitude of all that was around them, discounting the necessities, but the way she mouthed her elongated words to drawl and soothe at the same time, the way her sparkling eyes narrowed with ignorance when she'd finished speaking. It enticed a stirring of his stomach juices.

"Your name," he said.

She rolled her eyes and flumped onto her back, making a painful crack emanate from the protesting floorboards. From above, a door slammed, shuddering the decorative, empty picture frames and weathered books, which sat disorganised around the room. Heavy footsteps accompanied by the squawking of a woman trundled down the stairs, and Vegeta and the nameless girl sat listening to the familiar music of the brothel.

"That old song?" She sighed.

The object of the night was never to collect the whore's name. He assumed that came with the service, yet he couldn't justify why the need pinched his skin so insistently. Trying to ignore the ruckus taking place in the hallway, Vegeta closed his lids and focused on the jangling of carriages, close enough it almost tricked him into thinking they were accompanying him in this harrowing situation. Even if she revealed her forename to him, it would be a transparent lie. His concern for such a pitiful detail was most unsettling. Every mark burnished upon a person had to be registered and stored in his brain. Reasons for such things warranted_ specific _justification. It was these attentions to details that kept him awake most nights.

"Bulma," she said.

Now she was sitting up, and to his surprised eyes, a sheet of her translucent armour had slipped clean from her skin, leaving her looking beautifully vulnerable.

"You are a Yank," he said, gaining another rotation of those aqua orbs.

"Correct." She yawned.

That widening of her mouth made little sense to him. Was she tired of being awake, or tired of his company? Keeping her thoroughly entertained played as something vital in his mind, as he kept a close eye on her honeyed, glowing skin, while the majority of his body remained shaded.

"And may I say, Mr _Rimmer_, you don't depict the appearance of a local yourself." Her eyes drank the entirety of his skin. "These skies don't lend skin a complexion as golden as yours."

"Very observant," he said, clipping the conversation before it crawled any further.

The fire crackled, spewing a chip of cinder onto her thigh. The sound of sizzling skin resounded intimately, before she jerked back, stung with realisation, her feeble shift sliding down her shoulders.

"Satan's prick," she hissed, tending to fiendish slip of smoulder with a wet thumb, only to smudge a black trail up her soft muscle.

The act provoked his flaccid organ to sluggishly come back to life again, plucking his questioning eyes free from her dilemma to take a look at what was pulsing in his lap. When he looked back, the commotion had depleted, and she was sitting obediently on her heels, palms resting with elegance on her thighs. The shift had been disposed of entirely, strewn next to the coat stand, a mass of swirled emerald greens and sapphire blues cast away into the darkness. Finally, attentive to his nature, she had yielded to a manner he had expected. This was how he played in this pen.

He moved over to her, towering above the matted crown of her head, before gathering a handful of hair and pulling it, only slightly enough to rip her poise. He crouched to her level, her flushed cheeks bright in his eyes. "Do tell me, Bulma, how an American as well-spoken as yourself, manages to drain into a Whitechapel gutter at such a convenient time?"

To his silent dismay, she smiled. "That is a story _far_ too long to tell—" Her hands found their way to his stiffness again, halting his advancements, stalling his short-lived possession. She ran them up and down, before climbing on top of him, sending his bare behind onto the cold floor. The folds of her entrance stubbornly sucked on his tip before taking him in to the hilt, gaining a melodious moan.

He thrust hard, every inch of him sluiced in pleasure. "I have all night."

She hissed, digging the heels of her hands into his hard thighs. "To do _this,_" she crooned, bucking back against him.

He groaned.

"Not converse," she added, closing her eyes and working a rhythm between their sweaty bodies.

"What's gotten you so sheepish?" he said, cupping her ample breasts, before squeezing the plump flesh.

As a means of diversion, she whimpered, guiding his hands to knead her mounds roughly. "What—is so fascinating about my life?"

"Everything," he said, his breathing laboured.

They moved faster together, his backside lifting and thumping against the floor. It was a decent thing that they had been placed on the ground floor of the building, even though the sound of fucking was so joyfully accepted. The heat from the fire blazed against his skin, and curved around her frame, giving her a translucent silhouette. Spots of sweat appeared on his forearms, and his shirt became glued to his taut chest as he dug himself deeper between her thighs.

"You—You're Italian," she said, her voice wracked by erratic motion.

He paused, digging his fingers into her waist, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. "And how would a whore come to this conclusion?"

She shrugged, panting. "Your face—nose, hair, eyes … though your accent would have me trapped." Her arms slackened to her sides, letting her grip off him loosen. Inside her, he could feel the muscles throbbing against his own.

"My parents emigrated here in the seventies. I was shy of ten years."

"Almost born and bred amongst these crowds."

"Almost," he said, sighing and letting his eyes drop to where their bodies were connecting, their moist groins latched together in carnal union. An act so immoral, yet so necessary, misused for a purpose Vegeta, even now, couldn't define.

"You bear grief?" she said, her voice like liquid satin, dribbling into his mind, almost leading him to regurgitate memories he'd dispelled to the back of his conscience.

The furrow in his brow cut deeper into his skin. How had he just divulged such cherished information with a streetwalker? Little as there was exposed, no light was to be spread across his naked soul. That was for him and him alone. Not a woman who bedded five drivelling saps a night. Never would he be shoved into the same category as those men.

"No," he said, bucking her off his lap and sitting up straight. "Turn around."

Her face crumpled, before she gratefully assumed the correct position on all fours, replacing her human façade with the mask of who she really was—a prostitute. "As you wish, Mr Rimmer."

* * *

The church tower clock read four hours past twelve as Vegeta strolled, eyes focused on the morass ground, making his way to a close enough destination where he could embark a bus that delivered him all the way back to Highgate. The purpose of the Silver Spoon diversion was to release his pent up seed, sleep and march back to the station the following morning. That was what he had paid for. Little stopped him from pursuing what he desired, but he had been forced to dismount that particular idea, and careen a different path, a solitude dirt-way back home. Wandering these streets at early hours wasn't the wisest decision, but that was for the folks who did not fit in this puzzle. He did. The burning itch to be a part of the night-walkers assembly was something he constantly pushed aside.

His heels clacked loudly upon the floor, signalling his perplexing arrival. Unless you wanted a specific service, you did not tread at this time of night. Yet there was still a foggy uproar of music wafting from a public house at the end of the road, the stink of iniquity, the odd member tumbling out of its doors, a whore attached to their side like a mutation or growth. But soon he had passed that fine establishment, and the dry air caught in his throat as his legs chose to carry him at a more generous speed.

"No, I told you, sir, it cannot be done," a hushed voice said, whipping from beyond a narrow alleyway.

Vegeta stopped to listen, his heart feverishly beating in his chest, as the alluring tones of distress beat against his eardrums.

There was a struggle, heels clipping walls, breath hitching and gasping. He stalled, backing into the nearest wall to keep out of sight.

"I'm sorry, sir. I—I knows of girls who will do that for you. Not I, sir. Not I—"

Her implorations were wiped clean by the tell-tale sound of a hand being clamped around her mouth. Then the struggling became more noticeable, probably alerting more souls than simply Vegeta alone. His fists clenched, as sweat channelled down the column of his throat, catching in the damp collar of his shirt. It did not take much cajoling for Vegeta to simmer into a scene such as this. It was as simple as a drunk stepping into an ale house. It merely happened, regardless of the surroundings. Though Vegeta was meticulous with this kind of quandary, this particular mess bared no resistance from him, and he paced onto the stage, grabbing the attacker by the collar of his black coat, and throwing him into the opposite wall.

Water dribbled from a loose pipe, just shy of pattering onto the man's shoulders, as Vegeta pinned him against the wall. There was a thick swath of material shielding the man's features, but Vegeta scrutinised him carefully, breathing the miasma of his stench—a familiar pungent aroma.

"Fank you, sir," the woman said. "Fank you, fank you."

Vegeta scowled, distractedly turning to usher her clear of the scene, when the man regained resistance, bracing himself and barging Vegeta out of the way, before knocking him to the ground and kicking him hard in his empty gut. Before the darkness ravaged his soul, he felt nimble fingers reaching into his overcoat to grasp the loose change from his pockets.

* * *

The Dead Room had the ambience to draw Vegeta from his impenetrable shell. The wash of disinfected surfaces, masking the fermenting juices of a corpses' rotting flesh, the rattling of implements used to dissect, the 'humming' and 'harring' of the mortician's far and in-between prognosis. It was similar to inhaling the air of a fresh, flourished meadow. It was where he belonged, not roaming the rowdy streets, loitering with Runners.

_You made a mistake_.

The lug from the lack of sleep was making itself ever present. Without resting, Vegeta could function on the weight of plentiful, pressing duties during the day—renewed and perky as a middle class child. But the scent of his unfocused attention was gathering around him like a magnetic field, drawing unwanted eyes, even from dullards, like Smith.

"You see here, where the incision begins below the navel—" Smith motioned, wet blood on his fingers, to a slim opening in the skin.

_You made a mistake.  
_  
Vegeta nodded solemnly, an emotion he had perfected tastefully since his award winning performance began in the metropolitan police. The whirring of his mind was far beyond the sweet-smelling Dead Room, though. Charlotte Wright's naked body had been moulded by rigor mortis, which such an opposing vision was compared to the memory of her flexible limbs coiling around him as she had ground against him, once upon a time. The arms and legs were pinned to her side, fingers crooked and curled against her grey skin. Violet veins travelled pathways up her bruised arms and sprouted into a crimson gathering where a large set of hands had gripped her neck.

"I would assume there was little struggle," Smith said, wiping his hands, finger by finger, with a towel.

_You made a mistake_.

He blinked his way back into the land of sense, and trailed a hand up the bristles of her icy arm until meeting the chewed groove where her neck had been sliced. He leaned in close, so close the fragrance made his tear ducts weep.

"Bath salts," he muttered, wrinkling his nose.

"How—"

"Bath salts. Lavender. On her skin," he said, wandering to the sink, twisting the hot tap.

Smith pushed his glasses further up his crooked nose, stepping closer and scrunched his face to recover what his superior had suggested. "What are you implying, Inspector?"

"A lead," he said, flicking drops of water from his fingers, before stomping out the room, determined by the new sense of pride drumming in his every step.

_You made a mistake.  
_

* * *

"Valenza, your charms of persuasion have served you well once again!" Simmons said, doffing his hat to Vegeta, before closing the door behind him, blotting the metropolitan acoustics from drifting into his office space.

Vegeta smacked and shuffled some miscellaneous paper work and stashed it in the drawer underneath his desk, away from prying eyes. "What is it you want, Simmons?"

Simmons' ruddy face represented that of a vigilant alcoholic, though to Vegeta's knowledge, the man had never touched 'that poison' in his entire fifty years of life. But as he scraped back a wooden chair to permeate his meaty weight upon it, Vegeta silently questioned why the man held such a pronounced shade of red on his cheeks. Simmons heaved a heavy, appeased sigh, glancing around Vegeta's office, eyes flickering from the pictures of the Ripper's victims, possible leads and information of the sort.

Vegeta crossed his arms.

"Edminson has assigned me to this case, too. You and I, man, we are to work together," Simmons smiled, the guilelessness plausible in his face.

"Edminson said so, did he?" Vegeta smirked, pulling back his chair, a slight prickle of heat at the nape of his neck.

Since when did Edminson assign other members of the department onto a case specifically handed to Vegeta? It was out of the ordinary. There must have been a valid excuse for such striking decisions.

"That's right. We better get a bite on this lead of yours before the sun sets." Simmons pulled on his cravat. The man was always so immaculately turned out, even choosing to keep his hat on inside the office.

"Any useful suggestions?" Vegeta said, his restlessness getting the better of him.

Simmons' face took on an even darker shade of red, as his eyes were cast downwards to the knotting fingers in his lap. "I, ah … wouldn't even know where to begin with such a thing."

"Then you needn't waste my time," Vegeta said, motioning to the door.

Simmons looked over his shoulder, judging and weighing his options equally. Vegeta had seen the art of decision making so clearly upon on walks of life. The most admirable of such was when goading a prostitute out of her cotton wool comfort zone-the way their eyes would shake in their skulls.

Simmons removed his hat and held it like it was a steaming bowl of soup. "Alright … I may have one suggestion."

Vegeta raised a thick brow. "Oh?" And folded his arms, leaning forward on his desk.

Between them was a blade of sunlight, the only element keeping the office aglow. Without having to stare listlessly at it, you could see the motes of dust particles dancing in the air, but beyond that, Vegeta stared at Simmons' ever changing face.

"Wentworth Street … Specifically the Silver Spoon House brothel."

Vegeta's curiosity truly burned brighter now, as his pulse adopted a quicker pace.

Simmons coughed. "Valenza, I consider you a friend … an ally, if you will. So what I'm about to expunge onto you, I want you to swear on God's cruel Earth that you will not allow it to pass into any other person's ear holes," he said, looking up, a vein pulsing behind a tousle of greying hair.

"Go on, Simmons. I don't have all day," he said, supressing the urge to scream in his face.

"I have been visiting that very brothel for several days now. I know what you must think of me, Valenza, but I cannot shield my needs any longer. At first I dispelled it. The women in Whitechapel aren't as wholesome as a gentleman would require. Heavens above, some of them don't even possess a mouth with teeth! But … by chance … I stumbled across Silver Spoon, and Valenza, there is a wench there as beautiful and charitable …"

The oxygen in Vegeta's lungs took a turn, catching and converting into poisonous gas with every word Simmons blurted.

_Simmons was an honest man, was he?_

"I would recommend her. A Yank, she is – beautiful green hair."

It was blue. He wanted to correct the foul brute, but he bit his tongue until it blistered on this occasion, and shook his head in weighted disdain. "And you are spilling this soil because?"

"During a recent visit—" Simmons started.

_How recent?_ Valenza had the words latched onto the tip of his tongue.

"I believe there was a heady stench of bath salts in the air there. Perhaps they know of the supplier. We should look there either way. Then you can get a good old look at my girl," Simmons finished, and Vegeta swallowed the lump of vomit that threatened to flop out of his throat.


End file.
